The Four
by Destination Anywhere
Summary: They are the elite. They are BrookeBevinHaleyPeyton.
1. Cute without the 'e'

Disclaimer- I do not own them.

Rating- pg-13 right now.

A/n- This is just an idea. This is just the first part. If I don't get comments it'll be a stand alone, but if someone enjoys this I'll update. This stands in its own time frame, in its own one tree hill. This is pretty much my messed up twisted incite the show we all know and love. Pretty much nothing that happened in the show happened(s) in my story. Like I said, it's its own OTH. If you need elaboration I will, but that's it for now.

We are the four.

We are domination. We are beautiful, we are smart, we are untouchable. We are the girls, we are the wanted, we are the needed. We keep everything flowing, we own the scene, we are one; we are Brooke, we are Peyton, we are Haley, we are Bevin. We are not one without the other; we are everything, we are all.

We are mean. We hurt. We point and mock. We cause tears and break downs. We make sure the rumors keep flowing. We attack anything and everything to get a laugh out of it. We are BrookeBevinHaleyPeyton. In alphabetical order. Our lives are one, always has been for as long as I can remember. We are one sitting at first table at the far left underneath the window by the Snapple machine.

The four are indivisible. We don't walk alone, we don't sit alone, we don't eat alone. We do not separate. We are never one without the other. When Peyton walks across the street after fifth period to smoke in front of the bakery Haley goes with her. When I have dance class every Monday and Wednesday Peyton sits in while Bevin and Haley keep the car running in parking lot. When Haley does tutoring every second weekend Bevin sits on a stool near Haley and reads until she's done. Peyton refuses to shop at the record store on third if Bevin and Haley aren't there to vote on her newest buy.

Lunch means everything. If the new girl walks by our table in an electric blue mini and holy-crap-what-was-she-thinking lime green platforms, and just happens to fall. We laugh. As does everyone else. If that circle of kids by the garbage can looks over at our table and the boy with the blondeblonde hair and ratty t shirt with a mechanics logo on the front looks at me, I look at my lap.

I know him. His name is Lucas. He loves me. He is not one.


	2. We Laugh indoors

Disclaimer- I do not own them.  
Rating- pg-13 right now.

**Thank you so much for the reviews.**

That is, he loves Brooke. Not BevinBrookeHaleyPeyton. He loves Brooke with the brown hair that falls into her eyes, with the pink glitter lip gloss, and baby blue painted nails. He loves Brooke who worked all year to get a B in algebra; who gets up at 5:30 every morning to watch saved by the bell re- runs; who has a folder with strawberry shortcake on it; who cries when Simbas father dies, and that guy lets go of the door in _Titanic_, and when the old people die on that bed in the end of _the notebook_.

He does not love BevinBrookeHaleyPeyton, and he never will.

He doesn't love Peyton with the secret love for morbid art, who tans so well in the summer, and labels everyone but herself. He doesn't love Bevin with 23 first place cheerleading trophies, who has a sarcastic quip for all occasions, and dots her I's with little hearts because it looks more girly. He doesn't love Haley with the eyes all the boys swoon over and make girls question their sexuality, with the straight A's and extracurricular activities, who is a dream on the dance floor.

Lucas's friends are losers and everyone knows it.

Lucas is the head of the losers. Lucas has blonde hair and blue eyes and wears his shirts somewhat too small. He likes to dip his Oreos in peanut butter, likes special effects in movies that are subtle and not too flashy, Lucas has the softest lips. Even softer than Haley's and she wears medicated lip balm.

Last year, Peyton was too sick to come to dance with me. Bevin was taken away on some exotic cruise with her parents, and Haley had to be with Peyton, who was sick. Lucas sat on the steps of Madam Lisa's school of dance with me and held my bag while I smoked a cigarette and held my lighter in his hand like it was a special thing. He read the specials off of the chalk board from the diner next door and laughed when I told him to shut up. Last year I told Peyton she didn't have to come with me anymore because I knew it took her too long to get to the record store, and I love Peyton too much to make her lose her job. Now Bevin and Haley keep the van running in the parking lot behind Kurt's records. You sell them we buy them. Lucas sat with me while I waited for my ride every Monday and Wednesday, while I smoked my cigarette he held my bag and wouldn't look at my face until a long time after.

Lucas's friends are weird and not like mine. Maybe they make their own four, maybe they are one, but I don't think so. They are Lucas, and Nathan, and Mouth, and Skills. No particular order. Table by the garbage cans.

I don't know his friends. They know me, because Lucas told them. They know what I do, the Four, they know how we are. They know how things work, here, in high school, in the war zone. They know, but Lucas doesn't, so Lucas was hurt when everything happened.

**This isn't like mean girls, at all, if any of you were thinking that. Nathan's a loser. Isn't it great? Haha.**


	3. Blocking out the Friction

**Brookenlucas12-** The whole thing written out right now is about 26 pages. Which about 9-15 chapters. Depends on how I break it up. Glad you like it, thanks for reviewing.

**Thanks to everyone else who reviewed too.**

**I didn't know Bevin's last name. So I made one up. Or, borrowed on from someone I know. It's Accardi. So when she's called Bevin Cardigan, it's a joke. There's a lot of joke name's in this and I even make up a few middle names, so, yeah just role with it.**

I look at my lap when Lucas looks at me, and I notice that there's a nail polish stain on my thigh. My foot is wedged between Peytons back and Peytons chair, the toe touching her back just above the waste band of her jeans. The ones with the purple threads. Bevin is across from Peyton, and Haley's head is on her shoulder, one hand on my wrist which is laying limp on the table. Haley's sweater is blue with a zipper and it's mine. My socks are Bevin's, they're black. She left them under my pillow when we were cramming for government.

I don't take government. Haley doesn't take government. Peyton doesn't take government. Bevin does, and we aced that test.

"So, Hales gets to hyperventilate this time, okay? Annnnd, Brooke you can have a panic attack, Bevin I don't know what to do wi- you can fall out of your desk." Peyton is talking, and her gum is acid green. She pops it between her front teeth, and I run my fingers over Haley's blue and green bracelets while she talks.

"No, Pey, no, I fell out of the desk last week. I think Haley should cry, that worked that time in October, remember?"

Peyton smiles, blinking slowly. "Haley cries good. Brooke should hyperventilate, Bevin can have the panic attack, and I'll fall out of the desk."

"Last time you fell out of a desk, P-P-P Peyton S, you wound up with a concussion and we were out of school for a week." That's me. Peyton snorts, moving forward on the chair so that my foot loses its place and slides down the side with the toes hooked over the bar in the back. "I think, Peyton panics, I faint, Bevin cries, Haley has instant vertigo."

This is our own special brand of terrorism, mental instability for the sake of skipping Spanish. We have slips from home that describe our problems, our issues, our fear of being alone and/or in crowded places, and we have to be let go at the first sign of spastic paranoia.

Peyton nods, shifting her hand on mine. "Yeah, that's probably the best one. Bevin Cardigan, write this down, a'right? No repeat performances. We gotta make sure, this time."

Bevin rolls her eyes, counter-clockwise. Clock-wise gives you crows feet, it makes your eyelids hang low. When she does this, she sees Lucas, she sees Lucas watching us, she sees everything. She remembers, too, so we all do. She touches my face, with the end of her bent plastic straw, damp from spit and diet Coke, and I make an irritated protest before laughing. "Chrrrisssttinneee Davisss. He's watching you. Watching you, watching you, why is he watching you? Didn't we fix that problem? Is he stare-a-coma-phobic?"

Haley smiles. My mouth itches. "Bro Oke, I think he's going to attack you, again. Should we scream rape?" She tilts her head back, the orange plastic chair going back on two legs. "Rape! Rape, oh my _God_, that kid's doing it, again! Brooke, get down!"

The world turns on its axis, they look at me, they look at Lucas. Lucas blushes, he covers his face in his hands, and the kid at his left elbow, pats his arm, shaking his head. Bevin laughs, she pokes Haley hard in the side, and Peyton almost chokes on her gum. I swallow, trying to suck down air, I think something's stuck in my windpipe and my side is going to bruise.

"Big D, baby, you're making a scene." Peyton laughs and I can breathe again. It's my turn, this is my line.

"Sawyer P-X-S, we are the scene." 

Lucas leaves, that other kid, Nathan, at his side. They're organized, but not enough, because the other two, they stay seated. They look at me, they look at BevinBrookeHaleyPeyton, and they sigh, but not at the same time. They aren't in synch, not at all.

To my right, Peyton is blowing bubbles; her feet are on the table top. Bevin is drinking from the diet Coke can, the new kind, with the pale blue and the supermodel endorsement. Haley has her head pillowed on her arms, and she's looking at me out of the narrowed slits of her eyes. And I smile, because Lucas isn't there anymore, and his friends are talking to each other, and not looking at me, and.

Four is indivisible.


	4. Fake it like you matter

The hallway is just big enough for two people to walk, side by side, arm in arm. But, we are four, so we walk two by two; straight lines, like in that children's book about the cheerful orphanage run by nuns in Paris - BrookeBevin in front, PeytonHaley in back, and on some days we switch it up, make it interesting, and Peyton'll walk by me. I'm always at the front. Everyone knows this. It's because I'm the most easily identified, I attract attention, I'm pretty and loud and my clothes catch the light just so. I'm the mascot, I'm the First, and everyone knows me.

That day last year, I walked by myself.

Bevin was sick, she had the measles. Haley was with her, we don't get sick alone. They spent two weeks with their redredred spots and their insanely high fevers and every day after school, me and Peyton went to their houses in shifts, we sat with them and we gave them their homework, and we recounted the fantastic tales of high school life in vibrant, thrilling detail. But, in any case, BevinHaley was out of the picture, for those two whole weeks, and Peyton had her job at the record store. She was getting sick; too, I could see it in her kelly-green tinged face, her pale cheeks, the way she broke into cold sweat for no reason whatsoever. I told her, she doesn't have to come to dance with me today; I'd be okay, no big deal. And then I kissed her cheek, picked up her germs, and my perfect attendance record fractured five days later.

I was alone, sitting on the steps of Madame Lisa's house of dance, and I hadn't done that in the seven years I'd been Four, not since that first day of third grade when I moved in next door to Bevin A, when Peyton and Haley chased a kitten into my yard and asked me why I sounded like a cowboy. Being four means you aren't ever supposed to be one, because there's always someone else, and you know that you're a part of something bigger. Four. Everyone thought we'd had a fight. I was off balance, I wasn't used to not having my support on the side, my second line behind me, I wasn't used to being seen.

It scared me, and I almost fell over the crumbling, tagged-and-spray-painted front steps on my way out of dance. Almost, but I managed, and my shoes were the good kind with the rubber treads on the bottom for extra traction. Before I started dance, I fell a lot. On everything. It was cold, that day, and it was September. There was frost on the scrubby trees in the front lawn, and Peyton had had to use the lock deicer that morning to get the vans doors to open, so we'd stood around in thirty degree weather, watching our breath and huddling together for warmth in the driveway. It was September, so I hadn't gotten any substantial, warm clothes, and Peyton wasn't there, so I couldn't borrow her fleecy jacket thing like always.

It was just so cold.

Peyton wasn't with me, so I couldn't get my lighter to work. I, stupid, stupid, smoker, since me and Bevin switched and I started going with Peyton for her cigarette across the street from the school after fifth, had never learned to work a Bic damn Peyton. The little metal wheel just didn't click for me the way it did for Peyton, it didn't make the soft snapping sound under my thumb and produce the thin flash of flame I needed to get the cigarette to burn. It scraped my fingers, thin trails of pinkish-red blood streaming down over the creases and wrinkles of my palm.

God, it was cold. My breath was white vapor; my skin was blue, purple, white; I could feel my nose getting red. Too cold, and Bevin wasn't there to make me warm, and Peyton wasn't there to light the fire, and Haley wasn't there to be Haley, to sit at my feet and sing the Starbucks commercial song at the top of her lungs. My hand hurt, I could feel the sting of flint on my knuckles, and _God_, why was I so bad at being alone, I managed it for _years_, why can't I -

Warm, soft fingers closed over my lighter, a shadow falling across my face. Someone was blotting out my pale sun. Heat pressed against my side, the snapping of popping joints as someone sat down next to me, unfolding long legs in faded jeans, double cuffed about battered brown Nikes.

"Here, see, the thing you've gotta do is -"This kid, the sun thief, his voice was calm and husky; hot whiskey on the rocks, on an August night in someone's backyard. He was clicking the lighter, and it almost sounded like it did when Peyton did it, only softer. Like mini, muted atom bombs exploding, the metal hitting the flint and the sparks crackling to life. He took the cigarette out of my mouth, fingertips brushing my lips. He wasn't cold.

_Peyton was at work, right now. She's standing behind the counter assisting people with their buys. And I'm here, I'm on the steps, and there's a guy taking my hand, passing the Marlboro back to me, and he's noticing the blood on my fingers. His voice in my ear, and I realized that I haven't looked at him yet. _

"Hey, you've got cuts on your hands . . . you want me to - "

This is where I looked up, hair falling out of my face, lips circling the base of the cigarette, little ashes floating down to where he was holding my wrist, onto the face of his grey and blue watch with the red flashing numbers. His eyes were wide, his lips pressed into a thin line, let go of my wrist, and I knew him from somewhere, knew his name. I just didn't . . . care. I smiled, as best I could, and almost drop the cigarette into my lap. I did that before, burned a whole through Bevin's jeans, the black ones with the red stitching up the left leg, and she was pissed for a while. But. Indivisible. Wrecked pants don't change that.

The guy was still white, like he's stopped breathing, and it's a little bit scarier than it was to be alone. "No, I'm okay. I just had a lighter . . . issue. Thanks. It'll stop after- oh . . . "He blew on my hand, pulling his shirt sleeve down to wipe at the scratches, and his shirt was white.

_Oh. That'll leave a stain. _

"I. Um. I. You just looked a little. You know? I thought you . . . you needed help? Like . . . sorry . . . you're Brooke." He was an up-talker, everything sounded like a question, and my brother used to do that before Dad got him speech therapy. The blood was cleaned, now, but his shirt was dirty, and I didn't think Tide can get ride of that shade of red.

"Yeah. Brooke. Hi." I waved lamely, waggling my non-mangled fingers weakly, and he smiled. His teeth were crooked, not bad. Absently, I flicked a long, cyndrical ash off to the side, "Who're you?" Smooth. Very, very smooth. And kind. He blushes, purplepinkred.

"I'm Lucas. Scott. Lucas Scott. We have gym together?" Oh. Right. I have a doctor's note that says I'm too frail for team sports. Gym isn't really a thing for me; I just wear the shorts and t-shirt, bang, done. Easy A. Bevin did basketball, last year, but she quit because Peyton hates team spirit.

"Oh. Cool, Lucas Scott." Casual, but to him, it must have meant something. Because he kept talking.

"I. Thanks. So . . . where're your . . . friends?" He didn't like my friends. I could tell. Chances are, he didn't like me either. Chances are, he wanted to burn me to death with my lighter, and I was at the top of his kill list. Probably his friends sat at home every night, planning out ways to turn the world against me, wrest power away from us, take back the school for all the losers out there.

But he helped me with my lighter. For that, I'm. Grateful.

"Peytons at work and Bevin is sick. Haley, too. I'm all alone." That sounds so wrong, coming out of my mouth. I'm all alone. I'm _never_ alone. I'm Four. I cleared my throat and shivered, and his arm was almost around my waist. Like . . . like he was comforting me, like I've lost something. No.

"Oh. That's. You're never alone. You're like. Brooke. You're."

"I'm Brooke. Yeah. Thanks. No identity crises for me." He looked down at his hand, the one that crept up to rest on the small of my back, and it was weird because I was leaning in. He was soft, all over. "So, thanks. Again. I needed that help. Help is good, you're a good guy. And. Uh. I have to go. Now. My ride. It's here. So . . . "His hand rubbed my back, just slightly, and I think I jumped, but maybe not. He must have noticed, because he took the hand away and blushed, harder than before.

"If you have to. I'll see you around. Bye, Brooke." That's the thing, though, I wanted to stay. I really wanted to stay. And I wanted him to talk to me more, and I wanted to talk back and chain smoke. I wanted him to touch me. Again. Because no one else did it like that, like it was a thrill or a privilege. I started walking to the car, and he held up my lighter. It looked so . . . odd . . . bright green and covered in sparkles from when my lip gloss leaked, held in his big hand with the long fingers and rough thumbs. "Do you . . . do you want this back?" 

And I shook my head, because hey . . . _Peyton hates being late for work, and anyone can work a lighter. Lucas might as well be the one to do it, because I can't._ "No, you hold onto it, okay? My friend, Peyton? She does it for me . . . I think she's getting sick, too, so . . . I'll need you. Help. I'll need help. Again. From you. Same time, same place, okay? I like to stay on schedule."

Lucas smiled, and I almost, almost did. He stood up, too, dusting off the seat of his pants, and patted my shoulder lightly. "It's a date." Just as I was about to shake my head, say, no, kid, you're getting confused, I don't date, I don't date people like you, I don't date losers with . . . Keith Scott motors. . . on their vintage tees. I don't talk to them, either, and I sure as Hell don't let them do what you want to do, no, he stepped out of my personal space. He stepped down, onto the curb, and his eyes half-closed when he talked. "Don't worry, Brooke. I won't tell anyone. Cross my heart, hope to die, all that."

I didn't know that I was so easy to read.


	5. Rigged and Ready

**Thanks for reviewing. Sorry if it's confusing. It jumps around a lot. Usually the + signifies a time change. It usually jumps from. Lucas+Brooke now Lucas+Brooke before. Sorry if it's confusing how lucas and Brooke are together in one part then the next paragraph they're not.**

Today, the BrookeBevin, PeytonHaley arrangement is in full-force. People step out of the way, they press themselves against their lockers, and Lucas is at the end of the hall, watching us. Me. Watching me. Nathan is with him, and Nathan glares, but Lucas's eyes are bloodshot and have bluish bruises underneath. He doesn't step back.

He never stepped back, and that was always his problem.

Bevin smirks, elbowing me in the ribs, and my gaze locks on my feet and the cracked linoleum, just like always. Because I'm a coward, and I can't look him in the eyes. I never will again. I can't. I'm not allowed.

Four is indivisible.

"Checkcheckcheck check it, Bevin . . . that kid . . . right there . . . wait for it . . . look . . ." I've got my chin resting on Peyton's shoulder, my leg trapped between both of hers under the table, and the smooth, silky material of her shirt makes my skin slide into the hollow of her throat. She smells like apricot shampoo, watermelon conditioner, and the tutti-frutti Chapstick she bummed off the loser in her homeroom, all mixed together and covered with cucumber melon body spray. My elbow is resting on the table in front of us, sticky with spilled juice from one of the long-forgotten meals before our lunch shift started, and I'm clicking my pinkie ring on the edge of Haley's tray. Bevin is leaning against the wall, her head barely brushing the bottom of the window casing, popping blue Skittles into her mouth with her left hand while the right rubs Haley's knuckles. It's lunch, again, and we're not eating.

Our lives are measured in lunches. At lunch, it all goes down.

There's a kid, a girl, walking past the vending machine, ten yards from our table, behind Bevin and Haley so they have to turn their heads to look. Younger than us, she is, but we watch her every day, because every day she gives us something new to talk about. Today, it's the black tracksuit, with the jacket that stops just above her navel, exposing several rolls of fat covered in pasty, bumpy skin. It hangs out over the white hem of the sweat pants, and maybe it wouldn't be so bad if her skin didn't contrast so much against the velour. Last week, she pierced her nose, and it looks like a cancerous mole has randomly sprouted out of her right nostril. Kena, her name is Kena, and I know this, but we never use it. When she turns to walk away, you can see the fat bounce, and this is what we are waiting for.

I'm the one who noticed. I'm the one who pointed it out. And I don't feel bad about that, so I'm probably going to Hell.

Peyton is holding her breath, so my face doesn't move with her chest, and Bevin and Haley have turned sideways in their chairs to stare, to wait. No one is exhaling; I think we've all gone comatose. It must look that way, to everyone who watches us, and everyone watches us, always. Ten, nine, eight, seven, and she's starting to turn around. Six, five, four, and Bevin has her purple nails digging into Haley's wrist. Three, two, . . . one . . . and she moves, we all inhale deeply, falling into our own personal brand of hysterics. Peyton almost tips her chair over backwards, her face is flushed and splotchy; Bevin, jolted by Haley's sudden movements, chokes on the Skittle She's been sucking at for the past five minutes, clutching at her throat and coughing through tears of laughter; Peyton and I have our heads together, her arm around my shoulders, and our laughs blend together, alto-soprano, baritone-tenor, all at the same time. Her neck is slick with my spit, and the girl in the tracksuit is watching us, trying to work out what happened. She smiles, a small, pathetic gesture, and that almost makes me swallow my tongue.

We are so wrong. We are not good people, we should be punished, and we probably will be, but not now. Not today. Not by that girl.

**  
"Be all that you can be - the world deserves it."**

Today was Monday, and the green chalkboard with the hand-painted border of leaves and autumn vegetables in the window of the bakery had that written across it in perfect, loopy handwriting. Lucas was leaning against the butter yellow side of the dance building, one foot wedged between pieces of clapboard. He was wearing his blue and red Nikes, the nice ones, with the stripes on the heel and toe. I liked those ones better than the brown, and I liked the way the wind blew his short hair up into spikes. I liked the way the cold made his cheeks turn pink, and how he shut his eyes when cars passed by, like the exhaust fumes made them itchy. I liked the way he'd sometimes sit on the steps, and he'd let me rest my head in his lap, nose against his stomach, and he'd play with the ends of my hair.

Peyton was at work, then, but Bevin and Haley weren't sick anymore. They were back, but they spent that time together. It was their thing. This was five weeks after the first time, and Peyton had been making more money. Those minutes were Lucas's, now. That time was for him. He liked the way my hair slid through his fingers; he liked how it stuck to the sleeve of his shirt, stiff with static. He liked how I'd bitch at him about it, how he'd screwed up the style, and I'd never get it normal again, thank you much.

On that Monday, the chalkboard sign in the bakery next door said that thing about the being what you can be. That was the first day he let his whole hand go under my shirt. The Friday before, he'd gotten as far as pushing up the edge with his fingertips, drawing circles in the sensitive skin at the base of my spine, and the chalkboard had said, 'carpe diem - seize the day'. The Tuesday before that, he'd allowed himself to rest his hand, palm down, on the outside of my thigh, let himself feel the heat through my jeans, the navy blue ones with the faded patches on the knees and ass. The chalkboard said, 'God believes in you'. The week before that, he'd pulled my head onto his shoulder, wrapped his arm around my waist, kept his hands as far away from me as he could. The board said, 'live and let live'.

He always read them out loud.

I rolled my eyes, pretending like I didn't feel his hand, like I didn't know where this was going. I knew, I knew what boys wanted, I knew how they always pretend to care about something that meant a lot to you - they offered to walk you home from those weekend parties at the lake that went on too late, so that you wouldn't have to be alone in the dark; they'd offer to tutor you in the hard subjects, the ones with too many numbers and not enough explanation. Then they realized that there was no chance of getting any, so they suddenly didn't care about the possibility that you'd be jumped by a psychotic rapist, or failing grades.

The thing about the four is that we don't have sex. Not with anyone. We are four, and four works without a lot of significant others getting in the way. Haley had a boyfriend, once - he thought we were too close; he wanted them to spend more time alone, blah blah blah. She broke up with him and three months later, he switched schools. Four doesn't take commands from people outside the group. We deal with problems. We cut out the cancers that could tear us apart; we drown the rats who rock the boat.

I looked at Lucas's hoodie, my eyelashes got caught in the soft, over-washed fabric, and I snorted. "If I were all I could be, sweetie, the world would implode one continent at a time." 

He laughed, and the vibrations ran through my face. "I think I could handle that, though. It'd be like watching a fighter jet kamikaze." His legs moved, so my body started to slip down, and he had to grab the back of my shirt to keep me from landing in a pile at his feet. It was quiet, a little girl came out of the building and stepped over us, leaving the seashell wind chime rattling behind her, and Lucas put his hand on the back of my neck, squeezing. "I was thinking . . . you want to do something this weekend? I dunno, just . . . hang out, or . . . like that? I mean, my Sunday's are pretty much booked - church, and all, my mom's a fanatic - but you know, Saturday is cool . . . if you want."

"Can't. Plans. Friends. Sorry."

" . . . we're not friends?"

I sat up, a little bit thrown off by that quiet question, and the sharp, hard edge of the step bit into my thigh. My hair was everywhere, screaming infidelities and taking its wear, and he looked so far into my eyes that I thought he could see through my head, into the parking lot behind me. "No . . . you have your friends. Remember? And I have mine. We aren't . . . it's not like that." I blew the hair out of my face, scratching at a cut on my ankle. "I'm sorry if you thought we were. Because. No. I'm not. We're not friends." That was when he cupped my face, the hollow cheeks and he tipped my head back until I thought my neck would crack.

This was the part where I figured out that his lips were better than Haley's, and that his tongue tasted like Pepsi, the kind Peyton liked, and peanuts, the kind Bevin hated, and a something that didn't register with any flavor I had stored in my brain.

It was nice. It was. New. It.

Wasn't four.

Lucas licked my lips. And I thought that my mouth was going to bruise, or swell, or something, because it felt as though all the pressure in the world had suddenly been thrust onto my face.

"Brooke . . . I like you. And I know you like me, too. So . . . I don't know why you don't consider us friends. Because that's what being friends means, isn't it? That you care about another person, you want them to be happy." He sighed, and the trail of saliva he left on my face felt like ice. "I hope you're as happy as you're pretending . . . cause . . . it's the weight that's gonna bring you down." 

And all I could think of, was that his definition of 'friends' was fucked.


	6. Soco Amaretto Lime

**I broke this chapter up. Everything after the line is a flashback. Trying to make it easier to understand. Actually, I'm not sure if the line's going to show up so if it doesn't the flashback starts when Peyton says "Brooke." (right after the line I'm four)**

Lucas's not in the cafeteria today, which is weird, because he's always there. The only time ever missed lunch was that time after it all fell apart; when I gave Peyton back those minutes that she had the rights to. He skipped school for almost a week, then, and when he came back he had to leave because of all the staring. And the whispering. And the pointing. And the fact that only his small, misguided four would talk to him.

Because. In high school, the four runs everything. Remember? Right at the beginning, I explained that. And in the four, majority vote wins, so even if I had tried to stop it, I wouldn't have been able to. Three on one, that sounds like a fraction. And _fraction_, sounds like fracture, and _fracture_ means that something cracked.

Four can't crack.

It's indivisible.

Today, Lucas is in gym. He stands at the end of the line, as far away from me as possible, in the school-issued blue shorts and grey t-shirt, white Nikes offset by greenish grass stains on the toes. It was intentional, I think, that all the other guys put themselves between us, creating distance. Here, people protect their betters. Here, they wouldn't let Lucas the Pervert get close to me.

I'm too frail for team sports. 

Lucas's friends aren't in this class, so he's alone. I'm alone, too - Haley and Peyton have pre-cal, and Bevin is with her little progressive thinking group somewhere, learning about society and what's wrong with it and how we're going to be the generation that changes it all. I'm alone, but the rest of the class is with me, my side. Twenty-nine on one, that probably isn't fair.

Like fair ever applies to me. I am above fair. I am fair.

I'm four.

"Brooke." And that was when I knew that something was off, and something wasn't right. First names, proper names, given names, are almost never used. In an emergency, maybe, but not in pleasant conversation on a Saturday afternoon. We were in Haley's bedroom, on our backs across the double-bed with the red duvet and black flannel sheets. Our bodies were packed together, heads against the wall, and if I turned to the side I'd be looking into Bevin's inner ear on one side, and Peyton's mouth on the other. Peyton was talking, her hands crossed over her chest, rising and falling as she breathed in and out. They were both looking at me, and I could feel it; Haley, on the other side of Bevin, griping the foot of the bed her hand to keep herself upright, was the only one who didn't seem to see a point in scrutinizing me.

There was white-hot burning in my heart, shooting pains running down my arm, and I wondered if a kid my age could suffer a stroke. The fire in my chest contrasted with the ice in my stomach, slamming into each other halfway to create a massive front of violent, agonizing pain between my lungs. I'd never felt like that before, they'd never done this to me before, but I remembered doing it to Haley, over that boy. Haley, who was still studying the ceiling, with the stick-on stars and acid clouds.

I'd broken Codex with my four and now they knew.

"So, Brooke, Brooke, Brooke. What's up with you and the proto-loser? Is he teaching you how to speak Vulcan?" Peyton rolled over onto her side, propping herself up with a palm pressed into her chin, her elbow next to my ear. "Is he, Brooke? Or are you just experimenting with your awakening hormones?" My voice was stuck in my throat. My mouth was lined in cedar chips and wet wool. I stayed still, shutting my eyes, and ran my dry tongue over my lips.

"I don't know who you're talking about, Peyton. I don't know what you mean."

On my other side, Bevin turned, throwing her arm across my chest and knocking what air I have left out of my mouth in one gasping cough. Her lips are almost in my hair, I could feel her breath on my face. "That kid, you know? He's always got his hands on you somewhere, I think it's really cool how you can get felt up and not drop your cigarette." 

"I'm not . . . I'm not getting felt up. That guy? He's just some kid . . . helps me with my lighter issues. You know, Peyton? How I can't get the thingie to work right? Yeah, you remember . . . he helped me, once, so I figured . . ."

"We don't do that shit, Brooke." That was Haley. She didn't even move, just talked like it was meant for the stars above the bed. "And we don't let people do that shit to us. Where the Hell were you when we were making the rules? You were there, that's where you were, you were right where you are now and you agreed to all of them." Haley was still upset about that boy. She didn't even like the boy, not at all, but she wanted to. She wanted to like him and he blamed us for her not being able to. Honestly . . .

"I'm not _doing_, and I'm not getting _done_. Fuck. What's up with you guys?" Peyton sat up, then, and Bevin tightened her grip on me, fit herself to match the curve of my side as the bed dipped and she almost got knocked over the side. Haley looked down at us, we three, and Peyton on my right was laughing.

"Jesus, Brooke, we aren't fucking deaf. We aren't fucking blind. People talk, you know, when you're giving pseudo blow jobs to some freak in a parking lot." I almost talked, I had my mouth open, but the bitch cut me off. "And don't even _fucking_ deny it! Fuck . . . what are you trying to do? You want out? You want to spend the rest of your life in some fucking corner with Scott and his band of brothers? His little chess club, his greasy alt-rock kids with their unibrows and advanced acne? Is that what you want to do? Is Queen Brooke too good for her people now?"

Haley was the only one who got that agitated. Maybe it's because those were my words, coming out of her mouth, with different insults, nouns and verbs. Maybe that was what I'd said to her, maybe that was why she sounded so bitter. But I sat up, too, pressed my back against the wall and cracked my knuckles.

"Haley, chill out. God. I'm not too good for anyone, I _love_ you guys, how can you even think that shit about me? Christ. _Christ_, it was one time, with one kid, and it's not like I've been spending the night with him or anything, not like I have orgies with his loser friends." 

"Bullshit. _One_ time? One? Brooke, stop fucking lying. Just, stop. You think you can lie to us? We know you better than you do."

Bevin was abandoned when I sat up, she had no one to cling to for body heat, so she slides off the bed and stands in front of me, resting her hands on my legs and leaning in. "Brooke, we love you. We're your friends. You know that. Right?" I nodded numbly, plotting my next line mentally, waiting for a chance to fix things, make it right. "So, we don't know why you feel like you can't tell us the truth. It kind of hurts me that you don't want us to know all your friends."

And then there was Peyton, kneeling next to me, pulling me away from the wall and wrapping her arms around my waist, putting us cheek to cheek. Her voice was calm; it was quiet, nonjudgmental and fake, because she squeezed tighter than usual. "Look. Everyone needs to relax. No one's letting Brooke talk. How's she supposed to explain, how are we supposed to understand if you keep jumping down her throat? Haley, apologize. You're hurting her feelings." Haley looked at me, and sighed. Crawled across the bed, putting her arm around my neck, and Bevin climbed up to sit on Peytons lap. Apology offered. I nodded, I didn't get up and scream at them for being such assholes, I didn't run out with threats of bodily harm floating after me if they so much as put a hand on me. "There. Good. Now we're cool. Besides, I'm pretty sure that this isn't Brooke's fault."

"Wait, what?"

She ignored me, kept right on going, dug her nails into my sides. "I think that the Scott kid's been like, harassing her. You know? Like, attempted rape, forced contact - I think Brooke is probably really traumatized by all of this. She's probably too scared to tell anyone about all that abuse? Becuase, people talk. And, wow, kids are so cruel. They'd twist it all out of proportion; make it look like Brooke actually _wanted_ that guy all up on her. Brooke? That's the way it is, right?"

And there were several ways I could have gone. The truth, which was one. A more convincing lie, which was another. But, four makes the rules; can't they make the truth too? Maybe that's how it was; maybe I was misguided and stupid. Or maybe I was trying to justify it to myself, when I knew what we were going to do, how things were going to play out. I could have stopped it. I could have tried.

I didn't. It wasn't about me, not anymore.

"Yeah, Peyton. You're right. That's, that's what it was. You're right." I'd never been a good liar, and they probably saw through it. That's the thing, though. We mistake our own propaganda for truth. We believe our own excuses, regardless. And since we are four, that sentiment is quadrupled. Bevin smiled, with her perfect teeth and bleached enamel, and Haley sighed, relieved. Peyton grinned against my neck, loosening her grip on me into a light, informal hug. And I just sat there, in the middle. I always do. It's my place.

I don't want to lose my place.

**Just to clear it up, he didn't actually rape her, rumors you know? Sorry it took me so long to update, every time I tried to log in here it would boot me off so I got mad and stopped trying. Hope you liked it.**


	7. The quiet things that no one ever knows

**_Authors note-_ You guys really need to read these because I keep getting people telling me they're confused. I'm sorry, I try to distinguish the flashbacks and what not but my markings never show up. I'll try bolding them next time.**

**Lucas did not rape her. Brookes friends started a rumor about that so people wouldn't think she was friends/liked him. So everyone thinks he raped her, he and Brooke know the truth. The next chapters will be confusing. The next one is a flashback and then the one after that picks up back in this chapter. I'll mention that in those chapters though. I think there's 2 or 3 chapters left.**

Today, we're playing badminton. Two to a net, fifty-second sets, then a rotation. Everybody pick a partner, get a racket, blah blah blah. I hate badminton. I hate picking partners. I'm BevinBrookeHaleyPeyton, except that in gym, BevinPeytonHaley is gone and I'm left with just Brooke. The other kids? They leave the Four alone. I'm generally the odd man out.

Except for the fact that there's an even number of people in this class. So when someone steps up behind me, grabs my elbow and pulls me off towards the pile of bent, multi-colored badminton rackets heaped in the middle of the gym, we can say that it's sufficiently shocking. Especially when the kid turns out to have big hands, Blondish hair, and brown sneakers that I don't like as much as the red and blue ones.

Lucas doesn't let go of my arm, not even when the population of the gym turns collectively and stares at him, me, us. His lips are set in a thin line, eyes focused straight ahead, and he even manages to bend and get the rackets without letting me go, pushing one into my hand wordlessly and steering me to the sidelines. 

I say, "What the Hell are you doing? Do you have any fucking idea how bad things just got for you, Scott? Christ." He looks at me and laughs, dropping my arm and letting it fall to my side, seeming positive that I'm not going to walk away when released.

He says, "Brooke, you're really pretty, but you're really stupid. Because things for me cannot get any worse. I've got nothing to lose."

And I swallow, hard, tightening my grip on the racket, willing myself not to rub the place where his fingers had bruised my skin, not quite hidden by the sleeves of my shirt. He can't do anything, not now, the ties have already been severed. We're divided, but the four is still strong, and there is no way that he can mess that up for me, now.

Four is indivisible.

Lucas moves me so that I'm about a foot away from the wall, and I clear try to keep some distance between us, because that look in his eyes is less than comforting. I clear my throat, shifting the neon yellow racket until it's wedged under my arm, and look up at him, trying to stay cool. "There's always something left to lose, Lucas."

He raises an eyebrow, grinning. "Is there? Let's do a checklist, Brookie, dear. I've been beaten to a bloody pulp by your vast hordes of admiring cronies. See my face? Yeah, I saw you admiring it earlier. This bruise here – "He points to the one under his left eyes, tracing the outline with his fingertip. "That came from some guy who thought it was just 'fucking sick' that I'd try to hurt some little girl with no way of defending herself. Then there was the time I got kicked in the chest until I cracked three ribs. That was in the parking lot, there was a whole platoon of them that day. You ever think of starting an army, Brooke? You'd be a new militant force, that's for sure, because every mindless sheep on the planet would flock to your side."

I cough, turning my head to the side, and play with the gold bracelets on my right wrist. If I don't look at him, he won't do anything. That has to be it. "You want me to apologize? I'm not going to. I didn't do anything wrong. If you're so damn adamant about clearing your name, why don't you just tell everyone – "

"That I didn't do it? And, yeah, who's going to believe that one? Nathan? Mouth? It took me almost a month to convince Skills that I didn't do it. That's how much power you have. You and your little clique. There's nothing I can do, Brooke, to prove that it's not true. I mean, _you_ could do alot of things, but I know you won't. So, really, what's left for me?"

"Lucas, it's not my fault."

"I don't care whose fault it is, Brooke. What did you say? It's not even about you? Well, if it's not about you, then obviously, it must be about me. And, really, there's one thing I can do, if you think about it."

" . . . what would that be?"

"Well." He steps closer; grabbing me by the wrists, and holding me steady when I sway on my feet. "I can always make the rumors true. Close your eyes."


	8. Sudden death in Carolina

**Flashback.**

**Read it. This is a flashback. **

**This happened before the last chapter. The next chapter will pick up where the last one left off. There is one chapter left.**

I was in my room, alone; I was listening to some mix tape that Lucas'd given me before it all went down. The track listing was a weird montage of all his creepy underground bands - Morrissey, the Smiths, the Cure, and something called Northstar who was actually decent and could possibly be nominated for a spot in the four's acceptable music list.

I didn't know why I still had the stupid tape, with it's hand colored cover, _Brooke_ written across a piece of masking tape on the B side in pink Sharpie. It'd be a week. One week and Lucas hadn't come back to school. I hadn't seen him, on that day when Peyton told the kid next to her what she suspected Lucas Scott had been doing to me. I never said anything. That's important, that people know that. I never, never helped spread it around. I never confirmed the rumors. I never made a scene.

They came to me.

It was the weekend, so Haley had her tutoring at the library thing. Bevin was with her, watching her, waiting in some isle picking out books with titles like _the lovely bones_ and _of love and death_. Peyton was working at the record store, selling inexpensive and old records to the masses of indie kids that scamper in. She was the only one who did the 'work' thing during the year - the rest of us were handed money by our parents, hitting the mall as employees only during the summer, to occupy our long hours of nothingness.

I was on my bed, messing with the ancient tape deck that I'd only learned to use for the purpose of playing that stupid mix tape.

On the weekends, I don't get dressed, not unless four is doing something in public, and even then it's a struggle, so I was sitting around, cursing the bastard who invented cassette tapes, and wearing baby pink fleece pajama pants with a white and black long-sleeved T-shirt. This was when he appeared in my doorway.

God bless mothers who'll let any random kid into their child's bedroom without clearing it with the child first. I know I could never get along without mine.

Lucas leaned against the doorframe, hair messed up like he'd be running his hand through it repeatedly, clothes wrinkled and dirty, with bags under his eyes big enough to hold grapefruits. He's so pale, so tired, and it looks like sweat is dripping off his chin. His eyes looked sort of wild, like a caged animal trying to tear through its enclosure, and I tried really hard not to shiver when he crossed the room and stood in front of me.

"Hey, Lucas." He grabbed me by the shoulders, scratching my neck with his watchstrap, and for a second I thought he was going to choke me to death. Instead, he sinks to his knees on the floor, hands trailing down to grip my thighs, staring up at me and blinking rapidly.

"Brooke, Brooke . . . I'm sorry. I'm so sorry . . . it's important that you know that, it's really important." Lucas's voice was shaky, and hoarse, and I was really, really terrified that he was doing the gentlemanly murderer thing, apologizing for my death before tearing my heart out of my chest or breaking my spine. His palms rubbed my legs, slowly, and the friction went through my pants and made me jump. Lucas sighed, hard, breath rattling. "You heard, right, what they're saying? What . . . I wouldn't do that to you okay? You know, you know I wouldn't, I _never_ planned on hurting you, o-or forcing anything. _Never_."

Oh, God.

OhGodohGodohGod.

He thought I thought - he didn't know. He.

Ah, crap.

I put my hands on his, threading my fingers through his and squeezing gently, pushing him away from me slowly. I did my best soothing voice, kept my face neutral, and he started to calm did a little bit. "Shhh . . . Lucas, it's okay. I know you didn't. And you know you didn't. And that's all that matters." _Please, please let that be enough._

Lucas rose up on his knees, wrapping his arms around my waist and pressing his face against my stomach. Awkwardly, I put my hands on his head, smoothing back his hair, while he breathed deeply against the thin cotton of my shirt and made goosebumps rise up all over me. His skin was hot, his breath was hot, and I could feel my cheeks starting to burn. The back of his neck was damp, like his face was, like his face was leaking wetness all over me.

"I'm so sorry . . . I'm so, so sorry . . . please, Brooke, I love you so much. I know, I know you didn't want to keep hanging out with me, and I know that I talked you into it, and I _know_ that it was wrong to want to have you with me, but God . . . you're so perfect." My heart dropped down into oblivion, and it surprised me that he didn't feel the change, he didn't feel me stiffen.

"It's okay . . . this isn't your fault. It'll be fine."

Lucas let me go, then, and the imprint of what his face looks like sad was left on my shirt. He ran his hands over his face, drying it off, spreading the tears across his cheeks until he shined. Several deep, ragged breaths later, he looked at me, then down at the floor, before finding a point halfway to talk to. "It was them, wasn't it." _Baby, that isn't even the question. _"It was those . . . _people_ you hang out with, they did this. They couldn't stand that I was taking your attention away from them. Was it Peyton? Christ, that girl . . . I hate her."

"Hate's a strong word." And my voice was so dull, so placid. Maybe that's when he started to figure things out.

"Why do you let them do that shit to you, Brooke? You just . . . they have all this control over you, and now they're screwing around with your life. How can you handle it?" Then his face went animated, his eyes flashed, and he grabbed at my legs, again, leaving marks. "That's it, then, isn't it? You aren't going to just stay with them, after they did this to you. You can leave them, now, you can come with me." He was running out of breath, and it was almost sad. I ran my fingers along his cheekbone, down his jaw, and smiled.

"They didn't do it to me, babe. They did it to you. This isn't even about me." His brow furrowed, thin lines up his forehead and down to the bridge of his nose.  
"They - yes, it's about you. God, Brooke, these . . . _psychos_ are spreading all this shit around, saying all these things that didn't even fucking _happen_, I'd say that's about –"

"My friends aren't psychos."

He stopped, right in the middle of his sentence, and just. Stared. He kneels on my bedroom floor, the pink shag carpeting cushioning his knees, and he stared at me, transfixed. A light clicked on behind his eyes, and right in that moment, I knew I'd lost him.

"You . . . knew."

"Yeah. I knew. I was actually there when they – when we decided what to do. So, it's really not about you at all. Think of it as . . . a bonding experience."

Lucas started to stand up, never taking those big, blue Bambi eyes off of me. He stood up, and he sat on my bed, next to me, and I thanked God that the mix tape he'd made was safely hidden inside the tape thingie, so he couldn't see the _Brooke_ label and he couldn't see inside my mind. He shook his head, lips parting slightly, and in the next thirty seconds he had my hands clasped in his, resting on his knee. "No, you didn't do this. You're not like those people, Brooke, I know you. You're . . . so nice . . . and so smart . . . you wouldn't do it. I don't believe you."

"Well, that's your problem, then, isn't it?"

"_Brooke_! Stop taking the fall for those girls! Stop, okay? I know you aren't like them. You're different, you're – "

"Four. I'm four, Luke. I'm not like _you_."

His Adam's apple bobbed, over and over, up and down, and the grip on my hands became painful. I moved back as much as I could, my back hitting the headboard, and focused my gaze on the Beoncye poster on the door. "You aren't like this. I don't know why you're trying to pretend like you are. It's not going to work, I'm never going to believe that you didn't stop them for doing this."

"Luke, lemme paint you a picture, okay? I'm in Haley James's bedroom. I'm on the bed, and Bevin Accardi is next to me on one side, Peyton Sawyer is on the other. We're talking, and we're talking, and it comes up that a certain loser has attached himself to me and refuses to let go. We think, 'hmm, what's the best way to get out of this situation?' And this is it. You are living the product of our brainstorming, Lucas Baby. Get used to it."

Lucas shook his head, leaning closer to me so that I could feel his breath on my face, peanuts and Coke and that underlying sense of rejection. "Stop . . . they did something to you. They . . . they threatened you, you didn't have a choice."

"Lucas, come on. Listen. I'm telling you the truth, and I realize, I'm okay. Trust me." I blew the hair out of my eyes, and put on my best sympathetic face. "I know it's hard now, but eventually, it'll all die down. People forget things; you'll be plain old Loser Lucas again before senior year rolls around. Right as rain!" I stood up; walking over to the door and adjusting the waistband of my pants before it slipped too far down my hips. "Now, you run on home and revel in your angst. I'll see you around."

Lucas stood up too, slowly, walking over to stand in front of me, arms crossed over his chest as he started to shake. He sighed, quietly, and started to back out of the room. "I'm not going to forget this, you know. I can forgive, I know I will, because hating you isn't something I can do well. But I'll never forget. Can you live with that?"

I looked up at him, blinking slowly and walking closer, making him back out into the hall and smiling as my hair fell over my eyes, blocking my face. "I'll put it on my to-do list."

Shutting a door has never been more satisfying.


	9. Made For each other, You can Breathe

**Last chapter. The takes place back in the gym, in the chapter before last. Thanks to all you guys who commented I really appreciated it since this was a bit different from all the other OTH fics I didn't really think I'd get that many reviews. Thanks again.**

**Sequal? Maybe. Watch for it.**

Lucas's holding my wrists, again, and it's starting to really hurt. My fingertips have turned purple, and his leg is almost between mine, and my back is against the cold concrete wall. That's probably going to chafe . . .

Lucas smiles, serenely, like a cancer patient finding inner peace, and puts his arm around my shoulders until our chests are pressed together. "I'm sorry it took me so long. Well, I will never make another promise with you in mind." He shrugs, looking just a little bit too gleeful for me not to be nervous. He moves his head down, putting our mouths in line with each other, and speaks with his voice an inch away from my lips. "There's a secret I've been perfecting. Remember? I said I wouldn't hurt you? I swore I wouldn't, but you let me. And you've gotten so removed. I've really got to hand it to you."

His tongue traces the outline of my mouth, and I'm vaguely aware that someone's screaming at Lucas, telling him to get off me, get the fuck away, and it sounds like Peyton, but it can't be because She's not with me and I'm alone.

In the span of a minute, he's got me so close to him that I think I'm being absorbed by his body. His tongue is now _in_ my mouth, and I can't breath, I can't think, I can't move. Stars shoot across my field of vision, and Lucas's hand, the one not holding me in place is grabbing at my shirt, pulling it up in the back and clawing at the line of my spine. They might be bleeding, but I can't tell because I can't see anything but him. It keeps going, and going, and I'm really starting to worry that he's just going to kiss me until I pass out, but then it stops and I slide onto my knees on the floor.

Someone pulled Lucas off me, and I'm pretty sure he's right at the moment getting another beating from various people who've witnessed his little display. My lower lip might be bleeding, but it might not be, and sure enough, Peyton is there, arms around me, shielding me with her body. I should feel so relieved, but I can see Lucas, on the floor, with some beefy guy's foot digging into his stomach, and he's laughing so, so hard.

Peyton rubs my back, babbling in my ear, and I think that I lean against her, but maybe I don't. Her hands make the scratches on my back ache, and burn, but I don't care. Because, yeah, She's here with me. She was there before, too, and that didn't help. Lucas was with me, which was okay, he loved me. But I just realized.

The only number that's really indivisible? Is one.

I am Brooke.

I am one.

_End_


End file.
